


a young man's fancy turns

by TrekFaerie



Series: The Nice and Accurate Kink Meme Fills of Trek Treksson, Bitch [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Edwardian Period, Gangbang, Kink Meme, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Sloppy Seconds, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-05-31 01:47:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19415953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrekFaerie/pseuds/TrekFaerie
Summary: After a tiff with Crowley, Aziraphale sulks at his gentleman's club-- and, well, it just wouldn't be cricket if the boys let poor old Fells stay down in the morbs!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i've decided that "post the non-porn bit you easily write so that the attention and praise lavished on you can motivate the writing of the porn bit that is less easy" is a very clever idea.
> 
> more tags to come when the porn bit actually exists. who knows where this crazy train gets off?
> 
> the title is a bit of a process: so i was like "i'm gonna name this after the most inappropriate-sounding jeeves and wooster novel" but it turns out wodehouse named one THE MATING SEASON, so instead the title comes from the tennyson poem locksley hall, which is quoted in the novel. because i was not naming a fic fucking mating season if it doesn't even have the decency to be, like. some nice non-fucked up ABO.
> 
> Aziraphale/Gentleman's Club Gangbang: https://onthedisc.dreamwidth.org/9084.html?thread=93564#cmt93564

He could hear every word they were saying, of course. It wasn’t just due to the superior hearing of angels, either; it was just that the barroom was very, very quiet that day, and the upstanding young members of the Bachelors’ Club were very, very loud. He was often forced to listen to meandering conversations about all the things fashionable young men were into those days: sport, horses, well-meaning but irritating spinster aunts…

That day, however, the topic of conversation was slightly more interesting.

“What’s got Fells so deep in the cat-lap?” Dash asked. He had arrived only minutes before, breathless from his run; they had timed him the year before, and found that he could make his way from King’s to the club in fifteen minutes, if the weather was good and he didn’t end up distracted by a particularly beautiful pigeon in Trafalgar Square.

“Damfino,” Monty said, shrugging with an exaggerated motion of his beefy arm, upsetting Specks’ careful perch on his lap, nearly sending the boy tumbling off the plush settee they shared. “He hasn’t said a word to anyone since he got here—and that was frightfully early for him! I’ve never seen him show up here before tea; I didn’t think he even woke up before then!”

“You could ask me, you know.” Though he was older than the majority of the club’s members (excluding Aziraphale, of course), Specks, with his pebble-glass spectacles, slight frame, and petulant tone, appeared to be much younger. “I may be the only one here who could actually know.”

“If you have some greater insight than the rest of us,” Fitz said dryly, finishing off his whiskey before gesturing to the barman for another, “then please, do go ahead.”

“Well, as you know, my daily walk to Westminster—“ The entire room groaned as one; even Aziraphale found himself sighing into his champagne flute. “—my path takes me through St. James’ Park. I happened to see Fells with his particular gentleman friend.”

“The foreign-looking one?”

“You’re joking!” Monty snorted. “Seb, what right have you got to call anyone ‘foreign-looking?’”

Seb—a dusky young man whose mother had carefully printed “Sebastian Hemmings-Petrakis” on his papers at birth— shrugged up his shoulders. “T’weren’t meant as a negative,” he said. “He’s just always looked awful Italian to me.”

“His name isn’t very foreign,” said Fitz with an air of authority. Being the only (non-celestial) club member born outside of London (even if it was just Watford), he was the club’s second foremost expert on the topic of foreignness. “Now, what was it… Cromley? Something like that. Not very foreign at all.”

“It’s Crowley,” said Specks. “I know that on account of how many times Fells shouted it, alongside a few ‘how dare you’s and ‘I shall never forgive you’s.”

Fitz gasped, pressing his fingers against his lips in shock—yet never spilling a drop. “Oh, dear,” he said, sounding almost wounded. “Is our Fells having a falling out with his particular gentleman friend? How awful!”

“A lovers’ quarrel, you say?” Dash made a low hum in consideration. “That would be enough to give the most cheerful a frightful case of the morbs.”

“And what would be your prescription, Dr. Dash?”

Dash gave Monty a fond smile. “I’m afraid being an ornithologist-in-training hardly qualifies me to treat matters of the heart.”

“Fells just needs some old-fashioned cheering up,” Seb said. “And who better to do it than his most bosom of companions?”

“The ‘old-fashioned’ way, eh?” Monty grinned, his hand moving to grip Specks’ backside through his trousers, earning him a playful slap. “Royston! Have the others clear out the parlor room upstairs. We’ve got some cheering up to do for poor old Fells here!”

The barman nodded, giving just the slightest glance at Aziraphale, who was hurriedly finishing his drink. “Very good, Lord Montague.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i tried to make html work for the footnotes but
> 
> it's fine you can save them til the end! they're like one dick joke and then mainly a john hughes ending.

The particular parlor that the group made their way to had been very specifically designed: it had no windows, a hearty lock on a heavy door, and plump leather couches surrounding a massive fireplace. Monty had Royston get the fire going before he shooed him out, locking the door behind him.

Fitz, who was by far Aziraphale’s favorite (he reminded him of someone, pleasantly, perhaps that Gaul slave he had befriended centuries back), slid into his lap the moment he made one, all pale, knobbled limbs and hair like burnished bronze. “It’s alright with you, isn’t it, Fells?” he asked in a soft voice, burrowing his face in the crook of his neck. “We just want to brighten up your mood a bit.”

“I always appreciate your efforts, dear boy.” He let his hand run through those amber curls, taking one to gently pull it straight, letting it go to watch it coil up again—“… Though, to be quite frank, I’m not sure how much good it will do.”

“Sounds like a challenge to me, old bean!” He felt deft hands making quick work of his trouser buttons; Dash was knelt at his feet, a supplicant, his head on Aziraphale’s knee and the tip of his tongue sticking out past his lips as he angled around Fitz’s slim body.

On the couch across from them, Monty already had Specks pressed face-first into the cushions, his glasses lost to time; devoted to each other as they were, they rarely actively involved themselves in any sort of cheering up, but gave moral support and encouragement in their own way. [1]

Seb sat next to Aziraphale, near the half of him not solidly claimed by Fitz, who was alternating between worrying the pale flesh of his neck with charmingly crooked teeth—it was looking like a cravat week for him—and soothing the reddened marks with his tongue. Seb himself gave a quick bite to the soft curve of his jaw before busying himself with the intricate fastenings of his waistcoat. It was a chore to remove every article of clothing polite society required, to momentarily pull Fitz away from his work so that both boys could help him wriggle out of his shirtsleeves-- but he didn’t dare speed it up with a miracle or two. While humans in general, and polite society types in particular, tended to look the other way when faced with angelic happenstance, suddenly disappearing trousers would be enough to cause him all sorts of trouble with Upstairs. [2]

He took Fitz by the chin, bringing him in for a deep kiss, tasting spirits and tobacco and his chest tightened so that he broke it off, nipping his lower lip in the hopes of seeming like he had always intended to do that. Fitz didn’t seem too put off by it; as more of Aziraphale’s chest became revealed, he kissed and sucked a pathway of marks onto him. 

Dash had managed to loosen Aziraphale’s trousers just enough to free his effort, his cockhead dark and red against his stomach.

“Gentleman!” Monty’s plummy voice broke the spell, and they all turned their heads to face him. He was completely nude, with an equally as nude Specks on his lap, his thighs spread out wide. Two thick, spit-slick fingers thrust deep into a loosened hole. “You are all ashamedly clothed for how long you’ve been at it! We’ll all be having supper at midnight if you keep at it like this!”

“Aw, Monty, come off it! You just want a show of it, don’t you?” Seb grinned, hooking his fingers into his cravat and loosening it in a dramatic way.

“He wouldn’t act that way,” Specks said, his voice little more than a breathy whisper as he moaned and pushed back on the fingers, “if you didn’t humor him every single time.”

“Well, maybe I like giving a bit of a show! That’s hardly a crime, is it?” [3]

All three of them stood to undress each other, giving Aziraphale sultry little looks as they pulled off each layer. They were all strapping young lads, each in the prime of their mortal lives—and yet, they all looked as eager as children at Christmas as they tore at his clothes, laughing and teasing as he complained at his freshly laundered outfit joining theirs on the thick carpet.

He hadn’t considered physical attraction when first incorporating himself, having not discovered it existed yet, and yet his comfort with the form of “your favorite librarian gone to seed” had never given him any trouble with mortal or immortal alike. 

(Crowley always said it was strength of personality that made someone attractive, not their body—and could he really think of nothing else five seconds before one of Earth’s closest replicas of an angel put his mouth on his cock?)

Poor lamb. He really deserved his undivided attention. Amber eyes gazed up at him as Fitz, with practiced ease, took his cock down to the root, lips stretched taut around the thickness of it. The tease of throat against his head was sinfully hot, and he grasped those long red curls hard to chase that heat. [4] Fingers entwined with his own: Seb, an insistent look on his face, was forcing Fitz’s head down even farther, smashing his nose into his pelvis. For a moment, he felt he should intervene, but there was a quirk at the corner of Fitz’s lips and a determined spark in his eyes—Lord, that competitive streak would get him into trouble eventually. [5]

Dash was on his knees next to him, giving his own cock languid strokes as he watched the tears of effort build in Fitz’s eyes. The heavy length was at just about the right height, within temptation range of his mouth, so Aziraphale allowed himself to be tempted. He didn’t merely swallow it down whole, as that wasn’t his style; he kissed the fat, sheathed head of his cock, tasting it with long swipes of his tongue, all salt and soap and human. Dash steadied himself with an elbow on the back of the couch.

Seb had grown bored of toying with Fitz; he had a short attention span during most activities, but especially during sex. Leaving him to settle into his preferred place of cockwarmer, he parted Aziraphale’s legs further to trace squiggled lines higher and higher up his thighs.

Aziraphale pulled his attentions away from Dash’s cock long enough to get out, “Seb, dear, no, you’ll find, in the inner jacket pocket, a small packet—there’s a lad, very good,” before returning to it. 

Fingers, now slick, teased the rim of his hole, and if there was, miraculously, slightly less resistance, slightly more give, for those first two fingers than there normally would be, Seb was a gentleman well-bred enough to not mention it.

There was a bit of arguing, after that; a bit of Aziraphale, amused, allowing himself to be manhandled while the boys debated the natural order of things, as it were. Coins were flipped, and flipped again, and flipped another time because damn it all, Fitz, that trick coin was _not_ cricket and he was _not_ allowing it again—as was traditional, as was ritual, as much part of the club as the bricks in its foundation and the cigar smoke in its walls. In the end, he was on the couch on hands and knees, Seb taking his mouth with slow, steady strokes, and the other two jockeying for position behind him, lighthearted elbowing and dead-serious promises of future retribution. One was victorious, and he groaned as a cock finally slid inside him; he recognized Fitz because, dear boy, he always fucked with his chest pressed firmly against his partner, arms wrapped around their middle to steady him.

Humans, he found, had a bit of an issue with endurance – not that they were faulty! Nothing She made ever was! It’s just that there was a certain sort of inevitability to it all: Seb pulled out just before he came, getting a good deal on Aziraphale’s tongue, but a good deal more in his hair; Fitz, shaking, came inside him, deep and hard, only for Dash to artfully shove his twitching body to the ground and push his own way in. It would be there that he would very nearly find his completion, but Dash, true to his nature, would end just a bit too quick for it, pinning him down like a dog as his hips slowed. Aziraphale, catching breaths he didn’t need, 

“Oh, that won’t do, lads!” Monty, who had been reclining in satisfaction, raised up Specks by his shoulders and slapped him playfully on the ass, sending him, weak-legged as a calf and cum drooling down his thighs, across the room to them. “Never send a Harrovian to do an Etonian’s job!”

Specks gave them a cocky grin as he climbed onto the coffee table, turning onto his elbows and presenting them with his dripping, fucked out hole, more shameless than anyone’s ever been since the first bite of the apple.

“You’re always such a lucky duck, Fells,” Dash said wistfully.

A short while later, after his come was left to mingle with what Monty had already left and he fell back onto the couch, there was the other consequence of dalliances with mortals: Specks, woozy with it, lurched forward off the table and towards the floor – only to be safely scooped up in Monty’s waiting arms.

Specks kissed his cheek and smiled. “I can always count on you, can’t I?” he said. [6]

Monty grinned back. “Always.” [7]

The warmth of bodies around him eased his slow descent back down to reality, and he smiled in his satisfaction. Humans really were good in a pinch; always reliable, in their many forms and fashions, as their sweet, brief little lives flittered past him like fireflies on summer nights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Soon enough, one would be Prime Minister; the other would be Lord Speaker. They would steal kisses in the halls of Westminster, and be very, very bad at their jobs.  
> [2] Not that an orgy wouldn’t, but he had successfully convinced Gabriel that the Bachelors’ Club mainly focused on Bible study, so that wasn’t much of an issue.  
> [3] It was several crimes, one of which would be Seb’s particular downfall after the Great War.  
> [4] Aziraphale vaguely knew that gag reflexes were a thing humans were meant to have, but having spent such a long while around boarding school boys, he’d practically forgotten that it was a thing.  
> [5] It would. At Somme.  
> [6] Funnily enough, these would also be Specks’ last words to Monty, before the Irish car bomb goes off.  
> [7] This will be Monty’s last word, before a different sort of Irish car bomb takes him.


End file.
